


Welcome To The Family

by Dont_call_me_Carrie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Natasha Romanov, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Red Room (Marvel), character study of sorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-18 10:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21509752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dont_call_me_Carrie/pseuds/Dont_call_me_Carrie
Summary: The Black Widow was a perfect living weapon— easily capable of taking on an entire room of security guards, could infiltrate a consulate easy as breathing, and manipulate people in her sleep. It was one of the reasons she was so respected and feared, a formidable ally and even more terrifying enemy.…Natasha Romanov, on the other hand, had a very pesky thing called a conscience that the Red Room hadn't quite managed to stamp out.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Phil Coulson & Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 13
Kudos: 191





	Welcome To The Family

**Author's Note:**

> aka watch as I try and take what little I know of the comics [ _thanks, tumblr_ ] and fuse them with the MCU to give Natasha a backstory that won't have me gritting my teeth [ _looking at you, Age of Ultron and Civil War onwards_ ]. Trying not to rehash canon here, and trying to keep this short. ~~here's to hoping, anyway~~
> 
> **General fic warnings:** Canon-typical violence and mental health issues, implied abuse and deaths of children because this version of Red Room is basically the Hunger Games [doesn't get too graphic, but...Natasha's backstory is very rough]. Somewhat-reliable narrator because Natasha's self-awareness is pretty good for a child soldier who was conditioned to be Little Miss Assassin since practically birth. If there's something big I'm missing that I should tag for please let me know, anything specific to the chapter is going in the warnings before said chapter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Red Room did its level best to break its girls down. To make them stronger, to ensure the ones that survived were perfect living weapons, colder than a Siberian winter and twice as harsh. Driven. Remorseless.
> 
> Well, two out of three isn’t that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific warnings:** the usual [aka canon-typical violence and mental health issues, anything in the tags, etc]. A LOT OF HARM TO CHILDREN in the first third, because this version of the Red Room is basically the Hunger Games. Nothing graphic, but very very heavily implied because Natasha's childhood is not exactly a walk in the park. A lot of morally dubious things going on, none of it pleasant. 
> 
> This fic's main protagonists are Natasha and Tony, and I am very very salty about a) the trauma conga line that Tony's gone through and b) the way Natasha's characterization fluctuates with every movie I've seen her in from Phase 2 onwards. There will also not be Bruce/Natasha, because a) I cannot write romance to save my life and b) that ship came out of the left field for me and I'm still drawing a blank as to how tf it even happened in the first place.

> If you are reading this on any website that isn't archiveofourown or fanfiction.net, then please know it was stolen and reposted without my permission. This entire fic is freely available, for non-commercial use only.

* * *

Natalia didn’t know of a life before the Red Room. Didn’t remember anything before its sterile walls, or the constant, never-ending training.

All she knew was that to survive, she had to tamp down her reactions. To look like the perfect blank doll the trainers wanted, to wear mask upon mask, until she wasn’t sure where she ended and it began. Took what tools she was given, and did the best she could to not look back [ ~~ _because the alternative was to_ ** _drown_** _in regret_~~ ].

Her file said she was four, when she first learned how to disassemble a gun. Five, when she learned how to snap a neck, and that’s also right around the time she realized that something was wrong with her, because the Red Room scorned empathy—it was one of the first, most basic tenets they learned, one of the things the girls were raised with, since it just got in the way of the objective—and yet.

She hadn’t been able to help but give a second glance to the tiny body on the floor, when the trainer had demonstrated the technique on Yuliana—tiny, quiet Yuliana, who’d showed promise in infiltration, with guileless eyes and a bright, sweet smile. Yuliana, who’d stumbled at the wrong moment during hand-to-hand, and ended up getting her neck snapped by the stone-faced trainer.

The rest of the girls hadn’t batted an eye. Why should they? Everyone’d known she was weak—always had been fast to cry, the worst at close-range combatives, _soft_ —but.

Natalia hadn’t been able to resist the urge to give her a second glance, even if she kept her face just as impassive as the others. Didn’t stop her gut from twisting uncomfortably, didn’t stop her from from coming to the realization that something was fundamentally _wrong_ with her, and that she’d need to hide it far better if she wanted to survive the Red Room.

In retrospect, that might’ve been where it started.

Time flies by, and Natalia lives to see her tenth, fifteen, seventeenth birthday—and each time, it’s just as surprising as the last. Even if she’s done her best to fit the mold and not stand out, to fool the Red Room into thinking she’s the perfect weapon they want, there’s always an undercurrent of tension, of wondering when the other shoe would drop and the trainers would realize that their supposed masterpiece was flawed from the start, was a ledger where the other girls had a blank slate.

She gets sent on missions, playing people with all the finesse of a concert pianist, and it’s not so much putting on a mask so much as it is switching them [ _and it’s only years later that she’ll admit she felt more comfortable in her own skin when looking down the barrel of a gun in Budapest, compared to when the trainers complimented her for setting yet another record_ ].

There’s less girls, now, in the program. As expected, of course, given how the Red Room trained, but.

Seeing familiar faces disappear one by one, sent a pang through her, even if she never had any friends. [ ~~ _Friends were liabilities, bonds that make them_ ** _weak—_**~~ ]

That’s not the only thing Natalia’s learned, though: she’s made waves, like it or not, and the Red Room brings in specialists just for her. They say she has drive, has potential.[ _Funny, how her effort to survive ended up bringing attention to her exactly like she’d tried to avoid._ ]

Yelena’s the one to teach her things about information extraction in ways she’d never thought about before, how to read someone by their breathing, how to maintain control of the situation despite being the smallest person in the room. Eva’s the one who takes her dancing to the next level, to the point where she could confidently perform alongside a national ballet troupe should the need ever arise.

But it’s only the masked man who they bring in, that Natalia remembers with a degree of fondness. Because where with everyone else, she was constantly in fear of being made, it’s only with the man the trainers called _Soldat_ that she can afford to let her guard down [ ~~ _if only for a second_~~ ].

He teaches her how to clear a room in less than five minutes, how to subdue her opponents, shows the subtle change in grip that makes the difference between a crippling blow and a killing one. He breaks bones and leaves bruises, is merciless in his training—and for all that he never says a word, he’s the one she likes the most.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but the look in his eyes? It’s the one Natalia’d learned to hide, years ago, and…well, she can relate. A lot. And that he’s showing her _alternatives_ to killing, giving options to keep from putting more red in her ledger, is something she’ll treasure for the end of her days. Their training’s brief, because it wouldn’t be the Red Room otherwise, but. It’s something. [ ~~ _Years later, the bullet she gets from him hurts less than the realization that only one of them made it out._~~ ]

…and then there’s Graduation.

Graduation, where only the strongest in their generation survived. Graduation, where the now-few girls who’d managed to live through the training were exposed to what the commanders said was their version of the Super-Soldier Serum.

Supposedly, all their training up to this point was meant to build up their bodies to be able to withstand it. To be able to keep breathing, even through the worst of it, because only the strongest survived past the first round of injections, let alone made it through the entire procedure with not only their bodies but also their sanity intact— _anyway._

At the end of the day, Natalia pulled through. Still with that pesky conscience that’d survived where other girls hadn’t, but she pulled through. [ ~~ _Like always._~~ ]

There was no small amount of red added to her ledger that evening, though. Especially because of the _other_ part of Graduation [ ~~ _Tatiana, who wouldn’t_ ** _stop screaming,_**~~ _ ~~Irina, who’d gone berserk and had killed a dozen of the researchers before she’d managed to stop her, Lera—~~ no, _**_stop._** ]

Graduation’s also her last straw; even if Natalia doesn’t have much of a plan, doesn’t know where she wants to go apart from wanting out, _anything_ had to be better than… _this._

Better than this hellish place where she’d learned to put duty above all else, where pain and fear were her primary teachers and the knowledge that trust was nonexistent and love was for fools was now seared into her soul. Better than here, where the Red Room had the first girl who’d survived the dosage with their sanity even remotely intact cull the others to earn their title. [ _They called her the Black Widow, now. Her performance had been deemed second only to the Red Widow’s rampage, and it made her sick to even think about._ ]

No. Anywhere else was better. [ _It_ ** _had_** _to be._ ]

That night, ignoring the pools of drying blood and the lingering ache of the Serum still settling in her bones, Natalia _knew:_ she **_needed out._**

The notion was practically unthinkable, felt like blasphemy, almost. But…once the idea came to mind, she couldn’t let it go.

So Natalia bided her time, and kept an ear to the ground. [ _She wouldn’t have survived for so long if she’d been rash, after all._ ]

It doesn’t take too long to notice the cracks in the system; she’d known the Red Room had been increasingly harsh over the years, but between the rumors she’s hearing about strained resources and the war in Afghanistan, and the increasing amounts of strain on the trainers’ faces, and…well, putting the pieces together isn’t that hard.

It’s not just that, either; it’s the way she’s sent on higher and higher-profile missions than before, and the way there’s far less girls in the program now, let alone entering it. She’d known she was one of, if not _the_ youngest Widows out there, but it’s not until she glimpses the current roster that it really hits home—the Red Room is falling apart at the seams, and it’s not the only thing imploding, either. Not by a long shot.

Well. This, she can work with.

In the turmoil that surrounds the the fall of the Soviet Union, Natalia sees a chance and _takes it._ By now, all records of the Widow program are stored on-site, as well as their bastardized version of the Super-Soldier Serum. Entire lifetimes that only existed in their files, thanks to their handlers’ paranoia.

It’s a difficult choice to make. Made even more difficult because of the way her conscience gets, at the prospect of killing children. A true Widow wouldn’t have hesitated— but then, a true Widow would have never even considered rebellion.

It takes every speck of training, of manipulation and maneuvering she has, to find the youngest ones and spirit them away into overcrowded orphanages and hope no one notices they have the steady hands of trained marksmen. It’s the best she can do; the Red Room gets its hooks in its girls early, and other than their greatest failure, she wouldn’t trust anyone half her age with anything more vulnerable than a worn leather boot. Not if they'd managed to get that far in their programming, or that there were more than half a dozen in the program at this point.

[ ~~ _It still doesn’t feel like enough. Her ledger is dripping with ink, these days._~~ ]

A tragic… _accident_ marks not only the death knell of the Red Room, but also of anything pertaining to their most secretive program as months’ worth of subterfuge and hard work finally pay off and she goes on one last mission.

In the turmoil that surrounds the fall of the Soviet Union, nobody notices when one more name is added to the list of those lost in the tragic fire that claimed an entire orphanage: Natalia Ivanovna, the shining star of the Red Room, is dead.

In the turmoil that surrounds the fall of the Soviet Union, nobody notices when a single, nameless figure walks away, and doesn’t look back.

Natasha Romanov’s first taste of freedom comes with the kiss of danger.

It’s worth it, in the end.

The few trainers who had managed to escape the fire met their end one way or another, in the end.

No more little girls would be [ ~~ _shattered over and over and over again, broken past their basic instincts and remade into_ ** _monsters_** _lurking behind a pretty face—_~~ ] hurt again, by them.

The final legacy of the Red Room would die with the Black Widow. Might be a mystery for the ages, one final secret she’d gladly take to the grave.

[ ~~ _Definitely worth it._~~ ]

Figuring out what comes _after_ is harder than Natalia— _Natasha,_ now, Natasha Romanov, like the lost princess who was the last legacy of an empire now turned to dust twice over— had expected.

Life outside the Red Room was both exhilarating and terrifying: there were so many _choices._

So many, and she wasn’t—

Natasha didn’t even know where to start. An entire lifetime of being conditioned to put her country first and herself last, and now her country was no more and— she didn’t know where to go from here.

[ _The choice to be cruel, the choice to be kind. It was a heady thing._ ]

Budapest is…an experience. Especially after everything, after the chaos that came with the fall of the Soviet Union and the spectacular collapse of the Red Room.

Clint Barton is simply _baffling,_ especially to her instincts, but he grows on her alarmingly fast.

Seriously, though—he’d made a different call.

Just. That did not compute.

At all. 

“What, you mean you’ve never gone against orders on a mission?” He asked, early on, an arm slung over her shoulder as they’d made their way to the secured rendezvous point, running on more caffeine than sleep and starting to show it.

She shrugged with the shoulder that wasn’t supporting him. “There’s a reason I ran. Where I’m from, doing anything like that’s asking for a bullet on bended knee.”

She didn’t look away from the suspiciously-empty streets, but the noise he made sounded more like a punch to the gut than an “Oh.”

The silence got distinctly awkward for a moment, before Natasha decided to go for broke and tentatively tried to reach out for the first time in her life.

“Personally, I’m more impressed by the show of trust. Haven’t you heard the rumors?”

He shot her a wry smirk, and answered. “Ever heard of a leap of faith?”

Maybe it was intentional, maybe it wasn’t. But with those seven words, Clint Barton had her undying loyalty.

That he was willing to trust a Widow was rather alarming, though. No, make that _very_ alarming, and under any other circumstances, Natasha would have questioned it far more, looked for other motives.

Of course,this being Budapest, it wasn’t like there were other options, not when it was shaping up to be a clusterfuck of the highest order. As it was, they were running from not one but three separate international organizations, plus the local mob, _and_ they somehow managed to stumble across a human trafficking ring within the first 36 hours.

Suffice it is to say, she had her hands full just keeping the two of them in one piece.

Still. The trust thing caught her off-guard, long after they made it to safety.

Clint’s handler, who he’d introduced as Phil Coulson, made much more sense—the sharp look he gave her was far, far more familiar than the easy way Clint had put his back to her, trusting that she’d watch it.

[ _So strange._ ]

But…she could get used it.

* * *

SHIELD is…something.

The people are similar to the type she grew up dealing with—still suspicious, still look at her with no small amount of wariness once they know her codename. But the differences are jarring, in more ways than one.

For instance: the series of debriefs she goes through, as well as the rigorous interrogations and screenings to make sure she’s not a plant, tend to end with the guys at the other end of the table looking at her oddly.

Well, with one major exception, but then again Clint was constantly challenging her expectations in ways she’d never expected.

Still, even _he’d_ looked agitated, when Natasha had started to go into her past training during her ‘entrance interview’.

Intellectually, she’d known her childhood wasn’t the norm. But it was one thing to know, and another thing entirely, seeing the way their lead psychologist had _paled_ and ducked out for a minute when she’d mentioned the systematic way the Red Room stamped out empathy and morality from its members at an early age. About how she was dysfunctional, was actually the Red Room’s greatest failure instead of their shining star, because of that stupid, pesky little thing called a conscience that had survived where countless girls hadn’t.

Natasha still left a few things out,though—even if she wanted to make a good impression, some of it was going against the same instincts that’d kept her alive. Even if she trusted Clint, [ _and wow that_ ** _still_** _felt strange,_ ] she wasn’t about to bring up the Red Room’s version of the Super-Soldier Serum if she could help it; she had the distinct impression that they’d try to recreate it, if they knew, and that was…no. Trusting _people_ was hard enough, institutions was pushing it. Not here, not now.

This was her shot at redemption— but years’ worth of conditioning, of being told ‘always have something up your sleeve, always have a backup plan’ was impossible to shake.

Time passes by, and she settles in.

Settles in, and starts to lower her guard yet again as she makes friends for the first time in her life. It’s not easy— a lifetime with her guard at maximum just for the sake of survival was not something that could be changed at the drop of a hat— but.

Clint Barton welcomed her with open arms, showed a rare trust that she couldn’t help but latch onto. He’s the one who never laughed when she had stupid questions about social interaction, who introduced her to music and cooking shows and gardening and found out she swore a blue streak in Russian whenever documentaries about the ‘Cold War’ came up because they got everything _wrong._ The one who never flinched even when she methodically tore her way through the entirety of SHIELD’s training roster, then turned around and gave them tips on technique because their combatives experts didn’t have the same edge _Soldat_ had, and anyone doing that grapple hold was just _asking_ for a dislocated shoulder, wasn’t it _obvious?_

Phil Coulson was similarly accepting of her: while his brand of friendship wasn’t nearly as brazen as Clint’s was, after the first few weeks he had warmed up significantly. He was the one who gave cold looks to the people who whispered rumors behind her back, was the one who sighed but rolled up his sleeves and helped her tackle the mountain of paperwork for entering SHIELD. He had all the common sense that Clint seemed to lack, and a deadpan so good he’d almost fooled her once or twice when cracking some of his jokes.

They make a good team— a great team, honestly. The higher-ups quickly figure out that when put to a task, they _get it done_ no matter the odds, and just like that Strike Team Delta is formed. Phil’s quietly proud of their success rate and Clint is gleeful about his increased budget for gear, but that’s not what Natasha treasures: it’s the way she can close her eyes and not worry about getting murdered in her sleep, the almost-childlike faith that her friends have her back and trust her to have theirs.

Oh, sure, the others start to warm up to her. But it takes a while, to earn their trust— which is understandable, but also means she’s just a hair more reserved with them. Is still cordial, but never really clicks the same way she did with Clint or Phil, for the longest time.

The missions for SHIELD aren’t anything new; if anything,they’re a lot simpler than what she’s used to. A lot less risky, and it takes her a while to get used to the idea of backup if things go south, of not having to worry about being liquidated for the tiniest failure, but…so far, so good. She’s fitting in a lot better than either she or the brass had expected.

…well, mostly. Even years later, and Natasha has yet to understand everyone’s flair for _drama_.

She’d started to suspect, back in Budapest, but at first she’d thought it was just Clint being Clint, with his love of explosions. The gossip didn’t exactly prove her wrong, either; the majority of the rumors pointed to there being some fact to that, as proven by her best friend’s love of different arrow types and tendency to camp out in rafters or other similarly-high vantage points. Not to mention his intentionally over-the-top attempts at courting [ _…if that’s what they were; Natasha did not envy Laura in the slightest for how he’d get like when it was actually time to plan the wedding_ ].

Phil Coulson had been more of a surprise; at first she’d thought it was a coincidence, especially given how he’d handled the situation in El Salvador, but by the time Strike Team Delta was in full force, she knew him well enough to recognize the gleam in his eyes whenever Clint had to pull out his EMP arrows.

But it’s not until she gets Fury’s number that Natasha just kind of…gives up on it.

By then, she’d started to get inklings of SHIELD’s love of drama through other venues, as well: from the vague yet menacing vibe they put out, sometimes, to the uniforms that would’ve had Natasha side-eyeing the quartermaster’s office for _months,_ if not for the mobility they gave— and, of course, the fact that SHIELD was named the way it was.

Still, she’d thought it was something subtle. The discovery that it was anything but was…something. Was it an American thing? Did her Red Room training, which espoused practicality above all else, mean she had a different standard of what was and wasn’t considered drama?

Just. Ignoring the seriousness of the situation, it was pretty funny, actually.

The entire fiasco with Tony Stark and the palladium poisoning was just the pièce de résistance, really. The infiltration, she wouldn’t have changed a thing about, that aspect was fairly straightforward and helped to protect an asset, nothing she hadn’t done before. But the _mess_ that happened afterwards?

Natasha had known Fury didn’t get along with the World Security Council, to the point where he’s asking her to bullshit a report to the best of her ability and make sure they didn’t have very many of her notes on Tony Stark. That part…okay, sounded reasonable, nothing like using bureaucracy to get in their way. Iron Man was better off being an independent agent anyway, wasn’t like they could offer much more than what he already had at hand.

The whole thing with Tony Stark, however, about the nature of said report? Where the _entire damn meeting_ at the end was a mess of “I know” and “you know I know” and “I know you know I know” and things left unsaid because it turns out that Tony Stark loved drama just as much as Nick Fury did?

That, she could’ve done away with. Gladly. Because she’d thought that the man was a pain in the neck and had masks that were just a little too familiar for comfort [ _even when_ ** _dying—_** _that was dedication, right there. She’d been suitably impressed_ ], and he’d been plenty flashy in the time she’d spent in his company, but apparently the best time to pull out all stops was when speaking to directors of government agencies in badly-lit warehouses.

Because of course it was.

Suffice it is to say, the amount of acting in that room was enough to convince Natasha she’d just met the two biggest drama queens in North America. Couldn’t Fury just have straight-up said “hey, the Council’s being a pain in the ass, want to help me and give them the finger?” Because really, the end result was the same, and that way, no need to deal with the significant glances and _pauses_ and **_unnecessary double-speak._**

Well…there was no doubting Stark’d fit right in with SHIELD, if they ever needed him as a consultant. He’d be able to match them when it came to sheer dramatics, if nothing else.

Natasha knew propaganda when she saw it. Kind of hard not to, [ _what with…everything, really,_ ] and as such it was so, _very_ easy for her to read between the lines whenever it came up. So, while nearly everyone else in SHIELD was in a tizzy gushing about Captain America being defrosted, it took almost no effort at all for Natasha to see past the stars and stripes to notice the lonely man adrift in a world not his own even as they were speaking of Helicarriers and alien invasions.

He looked like he needed a friend.

[ _Well…_ ** _there’s_** _an idea. After the situation was dealt with and Clint was recovered, obviously, but…hmm._ ]

Despite what her ‘official’ profile on him implied, Natasha actually had a pretty good read on Tony Stark. Knew how he understated some things while overemphasized others, knew he was a respectable ally. He reminded her of…well, herself, far more than she was willing to admit, between his masks and trust issues.

…which is why she was caught off-guard when Tony Stark handed her a business card an an offhand “don’t be a stranger” over his shoulder, after New York.

Oh, sure, he’d acted casual, but Natasha knew better. Even if Tony’s body language was relaxed, even if his tone was the exact same one he’d used when giving a similar business card to Steve and Clint, Natasha knew better. It was in the tightness in his eyes, and the way his gaze had lingered on the card as he’d handed it to her, and his smile—this was Tony, reaching out.

Which—she’d stabbed him in the neck, and he was trying to reach out to _her?_

That…that, Natasha honestly hadn’t seen coming. Not when she knew about his trust issues, especially after the fiasco with Obadiah Stane, not when the latest debacle had shown the depth of his [ _admittedly justified_ ] paranoia. Just—Natasha could get it, sort of, could relate to that part, but the reaching out?

Well…it’d be rude to not to, after that, right?

Okay, so maybe Natasha was better at being a living weapon than she was a human being, sometimes. It’s not like the Red Room cared about normal social interaction when they could’ve have their operatives learning about yet another way of snapping a neck, okay?

But she _tried._

Clint had been pulling back since the mess with Loki and mind control, clearly rattled by the experience, Laura had her hands full between him and her kids and no way was Natasha going to compound her stress, and Phil was— _right._

Which, combined with how reserved she normally was, meant her normal social circle had taken a severe hit, after New York.

That’s not to say she wasn’t friendless—she’d been making an effort to befriend Steve, but…it was slow going. Especially since he needed space too, and so the first time she’d called Tony had been after realizing it’d been over a week since she’d talked to another human being for non-mission related purposes.

Also, she’d seen the latest headlines about Stark Industries, which gave her at least a half-baked excuse to talk, to congratulate not only him, but Pepper as well, on their latest success.

Even so, however, she had not been quite prepared for when he’d answered. Specifically, the surprise in his voice when he found out who was calling, and Natasha had been starting to regret it, feeling incredibly awkward, right up until—

“You’re the first one to call. Thanks, I’ll let Pepper know.” The wistfulness in his voice was probably more than he’d intended to let slip, but if it wasn’t…huh.

“Just wanted to make a social call, didn’t mean to take up much time, especially since you’re probably busy.”

“Oh, no, not really. It’s been pretty quiet here, especially…after. Call anytime, don’t be a stranger.”

Natasha wasn’t sure if he was exaggerating, or not, but…well, she’d probably take him up on it. She didn’t know how to make friends, but from the looks of it Tony might be in the same boat. [ _Whew._ ]

Turns out that keeping in touch when constantly doing missions around the world was slightly trickier than she thought. On the plus side, at least she managed, and either he was just as socially stunted as she was or something, because turns out that they clicked more than she’d expected at first.

It’s a slow thing, to be sure: Natasha was very reserved by nature, and from the looks of it Tony was very much the same, but…they’re getting along a lot more than she’d expected.

Granted, it helps that he’s a consultant with a degree of clearance that means Natasha can commiserate about how a supposedly undercover mission in London ended up making the headlines, and more than once Tony had ended up ranting about the stupidity of the people making the repairs of the Helicarrier, because “the damn blueprint says it right there, don’t put in the circuit breakers right by this very integral load-bearing joint, _come on!_ ”

So, sure, it’s slow going, but…considering Natasha can count on one hand how many friends she’s had in her entire life, it’s…something.

Time passes, and things are going well, for the most part.

Clint’s starting to talk about retirement a lot more than he used to, and Steve’s talking about getting an apartment in DC, and missions are starting to pick up again for Natasha. Not like in the Red Room, mind, but enough to where she’d be getting frequent flier miles if she’d been a civilian.

Enough to where she doesn’t have much downtime. Enough to where she ends up crashing from redeye flights and playing phone tag with Tony, Pepper, and JARVIS because she had to cancel on early-morning coffee meetings but Tony’d ‘accidentally’ ordered 30 pizzas instead of 3 when he was in the middle of an engineering binge [ _everyone knew JARVIS was fully aware of what he was doing when he’d placed the order_ ] and she was invited for a movie night.

It’s…nice, actually. Kind of reminds her of the things Strike Team Delta got up to during downtime, back when Phil was— _anyway._

It’s nice, having non-mission-related social interaction. A pleasant reminder to both herself and others that she’s not a robot, she has feelings and even if she can shut them off to get the job done, she doesn’t have to like it. Pepper is a sweetheart, and Tony’s masks fall away a bit more with every time she visits and every text she sends.

Natasha can still count on one hand how many people she fully trusts, for now. But she’s quickly running out of fingers.

Clint and Laura Barton are just as welcoming, but with two young kids who love to play with Legos [ _and are at roughly the same age Natasha had been when she’d learned to kill a man_ ]. They trust her, have never been anything less than welcoming, but she doesn’t trust herself enough for more than brief visits [ ~~ _the roaring fire and all that_ ** _screaming—_**~~ ].

Steve is quickly warming up to her, partly thanks to the odd shared missions and partly thanks to Natasha trying to gently needle him out of any potential rut he might get into regarding the outside world. She’d like to consider him a friend, even if she’s not sure he’d say the same.

Tony and Pepper, though…she was fairly certain they were friends, and that the feeling was mutual.

But.

Maybe it was just her training that had her instinctively identifying any weaknesses that could be exploited, but Tony’s mental state was _nowhere_ near fine and maybe it was the whole ‘we were both there during New York’ thing but Natasha couldn’t help but pick up on the way Pepper didn’t seem to notice that he was quietly falling apart. Out of ignorance rather than malice, perhaps, but the way she sometimes dismissed some of the classic hallmarks of PTSD was something that rubbed Natasha wrong.

Right. Because for all that he liked to pretend otherwise, Tony was a civilian who’d been through no small amount of traumatic encounters, up to and including going through an alien portal and back and now was probably in need of emotional support.

Oh, boy.

Natasha was a friend, so she tried to be available to help when she could, but…more missions were coming in, now at a rate that sometimes reminded her of the Red Room. She was in one country one day, an entire continent away the next week, and back again the month afterwards. But she did her best to keep in touch during the lulls between missions, even if it meant just sending a text at three in the morning [ _and trying not to feel alarmed by the quick reply_ ].

It’s not as much as she’d like. Not by a long shot. But a friend’s hurting, and she can help, so if that means staying up later than advisable and cursing her alarm the next day because a phone call went way overtime, so be it.

So the texts and phone calls continue whenever she can squeeze them in, in between the odd update with the Barton family and whatever way she can try and make Captain America laugh.

She’s in Croatia when the reports of Tony Stark’s death first come in, and when JARVIS’ text arrives. The entire AIM fiasco is over by the time she’s done with her mission, and the next time she sees him and Pepper she doesn’t even hesitate to pull them both into a hug even though the idea of physical contact normally gives her hives [ ~~ _too tight, way to close for her to guard, hugs were also in the prime range for—_~~ _no_ ].

So what if Pepper now has a bioweapon under her skin? They could work with that, Natasha had no problem teaching her about how to find her new limits and how to relearn control.

If, in the process, Pepper learns of her own experiences with unwilling body modification [ _thanks for absolutely_ ** _nothing,_** _Graduation—_ ], well. It made her feel better, and came with the cold comfort that she wasn’t in this mess alone. Natasha’s bad at peopling normally but this? She can do.

Just one step after another, trying to be quietly supportive for her friends in the sidelines, whenever she can manage in between missions. It’s not always pretty, but friends are there for you during thick and thin, right?

Certainly, that’s how it’d been with her and Clint and Phil. So this was just retreading old ground, was just helping someone the way she’d both experienced and done before.

Step by step, and her friends are getting in a better place than before: Clint’s finished remodeling his kitchen, Laura’s accuracy with a rifle is as impressive as ever and their kids are doing great, Steve’s teasing her back now, the bags under Pepper’s eyes have shrunk and last time she saw Tony he’d been talking about getting the arc reactor removed.

…and then DC happened, and things only went downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully my characterization for Natasha is coming across the way I'd hoped for, I'm trying to avoid rehashing canon too much too. 
> 
> Also, this fic really shouldn't be too long, the outline for it looks like it'll be only two chapters. Might go back and edit more details into this eventually, but I wanted to get this out sooner rather than later.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic and chapter titles taken from Avenged Sevenfold's "Welcome to the Family".


End file.
